


Break-in

by cy_chase



Series: Malibu Avengers [2]
Category: Hockey - Fandom, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, F/F, M/M, Malibu Avengers is totally a thing, feeeeeeels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cy_chase/pseuds/cy_chase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton learned to skate as he learned to walk, and a life without hockey is nothing he's interested in living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break-in

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to Breakout. Most of it stands alone, but scenes at the end of the fic fit into Breakout.
> 
> ...it got away from me a little.
> 
> Notes about hockey stuff: Hockey tiers are named weirdly to confuse you. Peewee = U12, Bantam = U14, Midget = U17. Each age group in Canada is played at the B, A, AA, and AAA level, with AAA being the most elite, travel-level teams. It is not atypical in minor hockey in both Canada and the US for elite youth players to play for teams not in their hometown (there are drafts and everything for kids as young as 14). High-level teams have 'billet' relationships with families and high schools in their communities so kids can come play for them and live in a structured environment. The NTDP is just a more-specialized version where training is specific for the US junior national team(s).
> 
> WARNINGS: Allusions to child abuse (nothing graphic). Mild implications of self-harm.

When Clint Barton was a kid, he thought everything went wrong in his family when they moved to Canada. (He’d learn, years later, that everything had always been wrong, but that lesson was hard to accept). The move had been a shock to him and Barney, announced just as 10-year-old Clint had pushed through the door of their South Carolina duplex, returning home from a run in the dark rain (ordered by his father, who had simply stopped the truck three miles from home and said 'You didn't work hard enough tonight.'). "Clint's too good for southern hockey," was the pronouncement, and Clint shrunk half behind the doorframe of the kitchen as Barney's accusing gaze turned to him. "We need to go somewhere where he'll be challenged."

It didn't go well. His mother hated the cold, and stopped coming to his games in favor of space heaters and Irish coffee. Barney hated him on principle for having to leave South Carolina and all his friends, and his casual cruelty, which Clint always assumed was typical older-brother behavior, escalated exponentially, to the point that Clint would rather sleep curled on his weight bench with a blanket than go back to the room he shared with Barney. His father was still impossibly hard on him, tight-jawed, painful grip on his shoulder when they left the rink, and no matter how many goals Clint scored and how hard he skated, he couldn't get a single word of approval. Instead, he'd be driven to hills and bleachers and frozen ponds, and his father would watch him run or skate until he was puking and trembling from exhaustion, dropping to his knees, and his father might sound disgusted as he muttered, "Get up, son, that's enough," but Clint would climb into the truck high from adrenaline and happy because if he hadn't done well enough, they wouldn't have stopped.

Not all of Clint's bruises and scrapes come from hockey, but nobody ever has to know that.

When Clint's 12, his parents die.

Even as an adult, the days surrounding the car accident are a barely-remembered blur, but the one thing that stands out in Clint's memory is breaking into the rink the night after the funeral. It was mostly-dark and completely silent, save the scraping of Clint's blades across the clean surface -- zambonied and left smooth and hard after a day of activity -- and the tap of his stick blade when he sprinted line to line. He was wearing a too-small Carolina Hurricanes jersey that tugged at his shoulders but that he loved anyway because his travel team had gone to Greensboro for the third home game of their inaugural season, and he'd never forget it. Clint danced across the ice for hours, pushing himself harder than his father ever could, playing out whole games in his head, until all he can do is suicides, goal line to blue line, goal line to red line, to far blue, all the way down, over and over. He dry heaves over the boards when his body can't take any more, and falls asleep stretched out on the bench, stick clutched to his chest, muscles aching, throat sore from panting in the chilly air and mind blissfully, completely silent. 

A month later, he’s sitting across a tiny living room from his new foster parents in Markham, and the woman (he can’t think of them as ‘parents’, not really) asks him if he’s feeling ok, if he needs anything. Clint can’t really find an answer, because his parents are dead and he’s in a country that isn’t really home, and his only brother emancipated himself and disappeared out west somewhere, and Clint stopped feeling anything a long time ago. “Can I still play hockey?” he asks, and they both smile.

The foster parents, Marie and Joseph, don’t understand what it means to train, not really. They take him to practice every day, and drive him to Bantam tryouts, and hug him awkwardly when he makes the AAA roster, but they exchange glances when he slips back into the house at 6 after his morning run. “Are you ok, do we need to go to the doctor?” Marie asks, when he drops to one knee the driveway, stomach rebelling with exhaustion.

“I’m fine,” Clint assures her, and he’s careful never to work past his limit in front of them again.

Which, of course, never means he never works past his limit. He’s lonely, and he’s frustrated, and behind enough in school to get teased for his snail’s pace reading and inability to do a math problem correctly on the board, ever, but he can’t bring himself to care, because if he runs hard enough, does enough tree-branch chin-ups, takes enough driveway shots, he can play hockey forever, and then it won’t matter if he’s lonely or if he can do algebra. Besides that, the pain of burning muscles and straining lungs, aches from the hits he’s learning to take in practice, it’s all he’s ever found to keep his mind quiet.

Clint’s 14 when the Waxers head to Buffalo for a tournament. They win their age group, and Clint has a hat trick in the championship game, and he’s flying high off adrenaline , tired enough that the world seems to have shiny edges. Most of the rest of the team heads off for food before the bus back to Markham, but Clint has trouble leaving a rink with a game ongoing, so he settles for a concession stand hot dog and the Midget finals. He’s never seen the USA nationals play, he realizes, as he watches their blue jerseys take on a team from Erie. He doesn’t recognize any of the names -- he wouldn’t have played any of these boys in Ontario minors -- but there’s something about the team that grabs his attention. They play fluidly, he realizes, after half a period of study, rolling on and off the ice in line changes that never miss a beat, they seem connect on passes just little more often than their opponents, spot one another a fraction of a second earlier. They’re a real _team._ Clint’s a team player, he is, and he gets along well enough with the rest of the Waxers, natural charm and an easy smile goes a long way toward making people like you without having to get too close. But he hasn’t been playing in Markham since he could walk, and he didn’t grow up in school with these boys, so he takes his shifts, drifts in the slot, and scores. That he wins hockey games is all the Waxers really need to know about him.

But it isn’t like Clint is oblivious to the whole idea of belonging.

Clint’s leaning into the wall outside the home team’s locker room after the Midget game, hunching deep into his jacket and hair falling over his eyes, carefully beyond notice of any of the boys pushing out of the door. He recognizes the head coach, though, after half an hour or so of waiting, and promptly unfolds himself and straightens. “Sir?”

The man looks impatient, but he turns at Clint’s query, eyes darting to the logo on his jacket and back to his face. “Can I help you, son?”

Barton carefully doesn’t scuff his toe on the cement floor. “I was just wondering, how d’you tryout for your team?”

The coach laughs, and Clint scowls just a little, but he doesn’t seem to be laughing at him. “Mr. Barton, as much as I would enjoy having your 2.7 goals a game on my ice, we are exclusively an American organization.”

Clint startles at that, because his goals-per-game is _not_ 2.7, but it is this weekend, and then he gives his best smile, squares his shoulders, and allows a bit of South Carolina drawl into his words. “I’m a dual citizen. Sir.”

Which is how, a year later, Clint Barton moves to Ann Arbor, Michigan, a ward of the province of Ontario, an American citizen, and in-training for the US National Team.

***

Clint’s billet in Ann Arbor is by far the biggest house he’s ever lived in (it might even be the biggest one he’s ever _been_ in), but he soon learns why: it’s home to eight people other than him. His billet parents, Mike and Susan (such wholesome names, Clint thinks), have two kids of their own, two foster kids, another billet -- one of Clint’s teammates -- and a grandmother (Clint hasn’t figured out who’s mother she is, yet).

Clint is overwhelmed from the moment he sets foot in the place. It’s always noisy, and there are constantly _things_ underfoot. Small children, dogs, cats, the occasional pet rat...Clint’s life, even given the upheaval of his parents’ deaths, of foster care, has always been strictly regimented by hockey and school and workouts, and he doesn’t sleep for the first couple days from the sheer newness of it all.

When he does finally give in and rest, he wakes after a few hours, nightmare fading but still restless, and he slips out of the room he shares with Steve, who’s 17 and the star of the NTDP, stealing down to the basement weight room. There’s something infinitely comforting about an old-fashioned weight bench, and Clint loads up the weight and slides into place, flexing his fingers as he grips the bar.

Sweat’s rolling down his temples when a noise startles him out of rhythm, and he relaxes abruptly, wincing when the bar clanks into place. It doesn’t seem to bother his nocturnal visitor, however, and Clint catches a glimpse of grey-white fur as he draws an arm across his brow. A moment later, the fur is on his chest, feline face peering into his.

“Um. Hi,” Clint murmurs cautiously. He’s never had a pet, and is not entirely clear on how to interact with one, but the cat doesn’t have the same problem with him. It touches its nose delicately to his, gives a pleased coo, and settles on his chest, head tucking under his chin. “Ok,” Clint agrees, fingers trailing cautiously through soft fur. The cat begins to purr loudly, and Clint can’t help but smile.

His muscles stiffen in the cool basement without stretching, but Clint doesn’t want to disturb his new friend, and the cat’s breathing is even and soothing, and soon enough the boy is just as improbably asleep as the cat.

***

Clint wakes to the feel of eyes on him. It’s not the first time (not with Barney as a brother), and Clint jerks upright automatically, wincing a little at sore muscles and focuses on the girl across from him. She’s seated at the foot of the weight bench, crosslegged with an easy grace, and Clint just blinks, not fully awake.

“You’re from Canada.” It isn’t a question, and the girl -- _Natasha,_ Clint finally remembers -- leans forward a little. “I went there once.”

“Um.” Clint struggles a moment with a response, because the drift of Natasha’s eyes over his chest is making him flush. “What part? I lived in, uh, near Toronto.”

“Dunno,” she shrugs, careless. “Stole a car and went.”

“You _stole a car?”_ Clint finally gets his brain online and stretches his arms behind him, shoulders and back stiff from his sleeping arrangements. “ _Why_?”

“Why not?” She doesn’t change expression, but Clint is positive there’s a glint of a smile in her dark eyes. “I only got a couple miles in before they caught me and I ended up here. But really, I was only 12, I couldn’t have known about border patrol.”

“You stole a car when you were 12, and went to Canada.”

“I was neglected as a child,” Natasha says solemnly, and Clint grins, because there’s something in her voice that sounds _just_ like the provincial social workers he’s been dealing with for years.

“Emotional abuse culminating in lack of proper socialization,” Clint quotes his own file and offers a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

She ghosts a smile then, and grasps his hand firmly before unwinding to her feet. “Come on, you’ll be late for breakfast.”

***

Natasha is, Clint realizes within a couple days, his first real friend.

***

Clint settles down in a few months in Ann Arbor. School is still hard, but hockey is an absolute dream. He’s learning more than he thought possible, he feels worked to the bone every day, and at night when Steve drives them both back to their billet after practice, he’ll doze off in the backseat (Natasha always gets shotgun) with a small smile curling on his lips.

He knows that his billet was carefully chosen. It’s no coincidence that he’s living with Steve Rogers, the steadiest member of all of team USA, someone to look after him and keep him in line. It’s also no coincidence that he’s placed with people who know the foster system and have experience raising abandoned kids.

Knowing that, though, he still likes them all. Grandma Raynes glares at him when he tracks dirt in the house, and snaps at him for his bad table manners, but she also slips him an extra cookie after dinner and knits him a purple hat (“I was going to make it red, white and blue, but I didn’t have red or blue. But if you put them together, you get purple, anyway.”) when it starts getting chilly in October. He wears it every day. Susan and Mike McCauley make him do his homework, and come to see him and Steve play, and assign them chores, and make Clint write letters to his foster parents back in Markham, but they never once ask him how he feels about his parents being dead, so he likes them a lot. 

And after the little kids go to bed, he and Steve and Natasha sit around the kitchen table and study. Natasha steals his geometry homework and he copies her Spanish, and Steve rolls his eyes at both of them, but quizzes them for their history test with good humor, and then they watch hockey. Clint sits in the middle of the couch, leaning into Steve’s shoulder, and Natasha curls up with her head in Clint’s lap, and Clint’s pretty sure he’s at his next-most content at those moments, second only to the deep, exhausted contentment when he’s skated himself to the bone.

Steve knows everything about every player in the NHL, and is happy to share, murmured stories and insights that make Clint smile and wonder what people will say about _him_ , when he’s in the NHL someday. Natasha is a brilliant strategist, and she’ll mutter about bad positioning and backchecks under her breath the whole game, swearing at mistakes and poking Clint with sharp elbows that make him yelp, telling him he better never play like that. Clint himself can always tell the moment before a goal is scored, and he can’t help but tense up, hold his breath, and he’ll relax all at once when the goal horn sounds. Natasha and Steve laugh at him when he does it, but he doesn’t mind, because they like him even when he’s weird.

Sometimes, when Steve’s home visiting his mother or traveling with the team, Natasha will steal into Clint’s room and slip into his bed, eyes wide and glinting in the light from the streetlamp outside Clint’s window, shaking almost imperceptibly. “Don’t-- I don’t want--” she whispers, the first time it happens, curled in a ball at the very edge of the twin bed, and Clint is careful not to touch her.

“Don’t what?” Clint murmurs.

“I’m not here because-- this isn’t about sex, ok?”

Clint stares for a moment, because it’s so unlike Natasha to share so much, but he just shakes his head, reaching out cautiously. “‘s ok, Tash. I-- can I tell you something?”

She regards him warily, but slowly uncurls, inching closer until she can hide her face in his shoulder, pressing close, nodding against his collarbone. “I think I...um. When I was six, I told my dad that I wanted to marry a boy on my team, so we could play hockey together forever.”

Natasha huffs. “What’d he say?”

“Nothing,” Clint sighs, rueful. “He cross-checked me in the facemask and told me to keep my head up for hits all the time. But...but I don’t think anything’s _changed._ For me.”

“You and Mr. America over there _would_ make very pretty babies,” Natasha offers, starting to relax.

“That’s _Captain_ America to you, Tash,” Clint laughs, nuzzling into her hair and closing his eyes. “Now get some sleep, or I’ll tell him on you.”

***

Clint breaks his wrist in a scrimmage while Steve and the other U17s are off in Slovakia at the Vlad Dzurilla tournament. Ms. McCauley, Tasha, and the development coach are with him when the doctor sets the bone and the nurse wraps up his arm, and even though the doctor says he’ll be back in six weeks, no problem, Clint has to fight not to show the icy stab of fear in his gut that all of this could be taken away from him so quickly.

“Rest up, Barton,” Coach Kivett says in the parking lot, squeezing his uninjured shoulder. “We’ll see you back at the rink on Monday.”

It should be reassuring, but it isn’t, and when Natasha relinquishes the front seat to him for the first time in, oh, ever, Clint can’t even enjoy it. All he can think of is how long it’ll be before he can hold a stick again, before he can be at _peace._

He doesn’t take his pain medication, just pops both pills into his mouth, hoards the vicodin under his tongue and swallows the antibiotic, spitting the pill in the toilet later and replacing it with a couple aspirin. Natasha has driver’s ed on Saturdays, so Clint has the basement workout room to himself, and the exercise is all he knows to ease the churning in his gut, while the ache in his arm quiets his mind.

Monday night, Steve gets home. Clint’s lost track of time (not unusual), and he’s pouring sweat and grinding out another sit-up when Steve slips into the room, team-issued duffle bag over one shoulder. “Clint? Why are you still up?”

Clint doesn’t let himself relax, just shuts his eyes and sits up again. “Couldn’t sleep.” He waves his right arm at his roommate. “Hurts.”

He doesn’t need to see to know how Steve’s brow is furrowed as the other boy moves to sit wearily on the edge of his twin bed. “How long have you been doing this?”

Clint lies back for a moment, gulping a breath, then sits up, eyes cracking open but staring straight ahead. “Doing what?”

“ _Punishing_ yourself.”

Clint blinks sweat out of his eyes and looks over at Steve, shaking his head a little. “I’m not-- it just, I just can’t sleep, that’s all.”

“Nat emailed me, you know. Said you aren’t taking your drugs, for pain.”

“Doesn’t hurt that much.”

Steve takes him in, and Clint is suddenly terribly aware of his trembling calves and shaky hands, at his pupils blown wide with endorphins. “You’re _lying._ ” And Steve sounds stricken, like he’s seeing Clint for the first time. “You’ve been doing this all year, haven’t you, hurting yourself. With _hockey_ , so we wouldn’t notice.”

Clint lets his legs slowly stretch out, shifting a little so his back rests against Steve’s leg, and he huffs out a breath when Steve’s hand rests gently on his head. “It’s not-- I’m not, Cap, I promise, it’s not like that. I just-- I can’t shut _down,_ until I’m _tired,_ and it...it helps.”

“What can’t you shut down?” Steve’s voice is soft, and Clint thinks his friend shouldn’t be doing this, he just got back from winning a Slovakian hockey tournament, and he should be exhausted and bitchy and not caring about his stupid roommate’s problems. But Steve is a solid warmth against his back, and his fingers are careful in Clint’s hair, and he can’t help but answer, because it’s _hard_ to keep everything inside, all the time.

“Just...just my head, is all. That I’m not-- good enough. That I have to work _harder_.”

“You work harder than anyone I know,” Steve murmurs. “And you know you’re good enough, you show me up regularly.”

Clint can’t help but smile. “Thanks.” Steve is patient, unmoving, and finally Clint murmurs. “It’s...it’s my dad. He-- from when I was young--” He shakes his head, giving a disgusted snort. “I know, it’s pathetic. He’s been dead for three years, and I still keep listening to the asshole.”

“He was your dad, it’s natural, Clint.” Steve is silent for another long moment, but he finally offers, “I wasn’t always this big, you know.”

“Figured you came out of the womb with a six-pack, Rogers.” Clint smiles in spite of himself and Steve gives an embarrassed huff.

“When I was a kid, even up to Midgets, I was...little. Scrawny, you know? I was fast, and I played hard, every game, but my coaches always said I was just too little to go anywhere in hockey. And the other teams, well...they’d just hit the _hell_ out of me. I always got back up, but it wasn’t always easy. My best friend, he said I should quit, that I was going to get hurt, and...well, he was probably right.” Steve pauses, and Clint glances up at him, silent plea to continue. “And then, the summer after I turned 15...well, _this_ happened. I grew six inches in two months, and it seemed like everything I ate turned into muscle.” He shrugs, obviously self-conscious. “And suddenly I was good enough. I had all this _respect_ , and it felt weird, because I still felt like me, you know? Little.”

Clint nods a little, curling his good arm around Steve’s calf and resting his cheek against his knee. “I’m glad, though. That you’re...here, I mean.”

Steve seems to relax a little, and his voice is gentle. “I’m glad you’re here too, Clint. And I want you to _stay_ , so you need to rest and heal, ok?”

Clint draws away, finally feeling ready to get to his feet. “I’ll try.”

Steve gives him a gentle shove toward the other bed. “Just...if you feel restless, or...or overwhelmed, come talk to me or Nat, ok?”

Clint crawls into his own bed, suddenly overcome by exhaustion, burrowing under the blankets. “Steve?”

“Mm?”

“Thanks.”

***

Clint is 18 and playing his third NHL game for the Philadelphia Flyers, with testaments to the past glory of the team fluttering in the rafters, the roar of the crowd filling his ears and the sharp, clean smell of ice all around him. He’s not over the shock of it all, not really, but Steve and Tasha have been slowly talking him down (from a distance: Steve was the first overall pick of the Malibu expansion team and is an entire continent away; Natasha is a freshman in U of M’s School of Kinesiology). Making the team out of camp is something he never, ever would’ve thought possible, and he’s having trouble integrating himself on this team, coming out of the NTDP, with boys he’d more or less grown into his own with.

Still, fitting in is less important than proving himself, and four points in two games has him well on his way to _that_ goal, at least. So it’s three games in, 8 minutes into the first period against Toronto, and Clint’s gliding through the neutral zone on the forecheck. The Leaf defender (Coulson, is Steve’s voice in his head, he went to _Harvard_ ) is racing Clint’s linemate, a big guy named Luke Cage, for a puck on the boards, and Coulson’s going to win, so Clint puts on a burst of speed to cut off the outlet up the boards.

What happens is-- strange, flukey. Coulson must’ve known Cage was coming, but maybe Luke slows a step and throws him off. For whatever reason, Coulson traps the puck against the boards and, when he doesn’t take a hit right away, backs off a little, head dipping down, and Clint can’t even get a warning yell out before Cage hits him.

The puck squirts free, but Clint doesn’t notice, because over the whistle to stop play and the roar of the crowd for the big hit, he can tell that Coulson is _seriously_ down. Cage is backing away, hissing curses under his breath (Clint doesn’t know his teammates very well yet, but Cage showed him around during camp and helping him find an apartment, and he doesn’t think the big man is ever out for blood) as Clint drops to one knee next to the injured opponent.

He doesn’t touch him, Natasha had used him as a sounding board to study for athletic trainer certification enough times that he knows better, but he does say the man’s name, quietly, and is rewarded by blue eyes springing open. He loses his breath at what he sees there, confusion and terror, but then the trainers off the bench are at Coulson’s side, and Clint willingly backs off.

They finish the game after the EMTs have been called and Coulson’s stretchered off the ice with a backboard and neck brace. The Flyers win, Clint scores another goal, but he feels like there’s a lump in his throat the entire night, and he isn’t entirely clear why.

***

“You should talk to him.”

Clint glances over at Coulson, who’s still on the couch, a small smile on his face despite his obvious fatigue. “I tried, Tash, I don’t think he really want to talks to _me_.”

“Maybe you should try to talk to him in private.” Clint groans and drops his forehead to Romanov’s shoulder. 

“And say what? Do you like me, check yes or no?”

“You could try building up to that.” Steve Rogers’ arms encircle both their shoulders, and his smile is fond. “C’mon, Clint, you boys obviously have some on-ice chemistry. It can’t hurt to talk to him, and after being forced to DVR every single one of the man’s games for four years, I’m going to have to insist that you man up.”

“Seconded,” Natasha smirks, and ruffles Clint’s hair as their general manager approaches.

“Gentlemen, what is the number one rule of the Avengers?”

“Don’t steal Coach Fury’s eye patch,” Clint says immediately, and to her credit Pepper Potts doesn’t smile.

“No hitting on my girlfriend,” she says sternly, and Clint is warmed by Natasha’s small grin. It’s taken Natasha a long time to be comfortable enough with anyone for a real relationship, but Pepper is good for her, and it makes Clint happy to see his friends happy.

“And on that note,” Steve sighs, as Natasha slips out from under his arm to Pepper’s side and the sound of a glass bottle breaking echoes in the kitchen, “I believe I’ll show our guest to his room, since Tony is clearly indisposed.” Steve gives Clint a thoughtful look. “Go make sure our Vezina-winning goalie hasn’t severed an artery, and you’ll have your chance to talk to Coulson in private.”

“Not going to happen,” Clint sighs, but he’s _thinking_ about it as he heads for the kitchen to check on Stark.

And ten minutes later, he’s outside Phil’s guest bedroom nervous like it’s his first game all over again. Natasha can tease him about a schoolboy crush all day, but Clint doesn’t feel that way, not like when he was crushing on cute centers on opposing teams in high school. He watched Coulson’s broken neck happen from three feet away, he was there when Coulson opened his eyes, disoriented, terrified, and he saw Phil take his first major hit a year later, back on the ice. He wants someone to teach him how to be that brave.

Clint takes a slow, deep breath, and steps into the room.

***

“But I _want_ to,” Clint breathes against Phil’s lips, and the older man arches up against him, hands deftly drawing up Clint’s shirt, deepening the kiss, fingertips digging into Clint’s back to pull him closer. “I want to taste _all_ of you, I want to know what makes you tick.”

Phil groans softly into Clint’s mouth, and the brush of their hips together makes them both gasp. “Pants,” Phil murmurs, and Barton fumbles to obey, stripping with no preamble, hands on Phil’s fly as soon as he’s naked, mouth pressed to his belly while he draws down the zipper, molten with _want_. “Jesus,” Coulson sighs, hands roaming over Clint’s skin. “You are way too hot for me.”

“Lies,” Clint hisses against a hipbone, shamelessly grinding against the bedsheets as he mouths at the damp spot on the front of Phil’s boxers, breath catching in his throat when Phil’s hips jerk up for more. He backs off reluctantly to relieve Coulson fully of his pants and underwear and pauses, hands tracing up Phil’s legs, drinking him in. “Scoot up to the pillows. I know you’re exhausted, just let me take care of you.”

“No,” Phil says, thoughtful, sitting up and drawing Clint into his lap, big hands settling firmly along the curve of Barton’s ass. “I _am_ exhausted, and the minute I come I’m going to pass out, so we do this together.” He leans in, fingertips trailing around Clint’s hip as he leans forward to nibble an earlobe. “I refuse to pass out before I see you come apart.”

Clint nearly loses it right there, at the low growl of Phil’s voice in his ear, the sharp pull of teeth on the lobe and Coulson’s hand so, so close. “Then _touch_ me, jesus fuck, please,” Clint hears himself say, and he can feel Phil’s smile against his neck.

Phil does, and it’s downright electric, fingers curling around his shaft, one smooth, dry stroke up before Coulson holds up his palm to Clint and raises his eyebrows. Barton grins, dampening Phil’s hand with lingering swipes of his tongue, nibbling at the soft skin between fingers as he forces Phil to the pillows again, braced over him so they can align just right. “Good?” he asks, half-smiling.

Coulson meets his eyes, and his hand curls loosely around both of them at once and good is not an adjective that’s anywhere _near_ the spectrum of what it feels when Phil rocks his hips up so they slide together, hot and starting to slicken with precome. “Happy with this?”

“Yes, god yes,” Clint pants, blindly seeking out a kiss and half-missing, but Phil turns his head just a little and the kiss turns immediately deep, antagonistic and desperate. Barton wants to stay right there forever, he thinks, the steady rock of Phil’s body against his, pleasure pooling in his spine, his mouth bruised, lips swollen.

“C’mon,” Phil urges, like he can somehow tell how close Clint is, how much he wants to hold out for just that much more. “I want to see you first, I don’t want to miss it, come for me.”

Phil’s voice is low and even, and Clint opens his mouth to quip about how he’s not very good at following orders when any words in his throat turn into a groan instead and his body is in full-on betrayal mode, back arching as he pulses against Phil’s belly, still trembling through aftershocks when Phil’s hand falls away and finds Clint’s wrist, pressing a kiss to the palm of his hand. “Fuck, I didn’t even feel you come, you bastard, think _I_ didn’t want to watch?”

Phil blushes faintly and Clint feels a full fifteen seconds adorable-induced muteness before the other man speaks. “I...may have underestimated the effect that you-- that seeing you-- would have on me.”

Clint can’t help his stupid grin, and he presses a kiss to Phil’s lips and climbs out of bed to find a towel. “Oh. Well...that’s ok, then. Next time?” The attached bathroom is well-stocked, and Clint dampens a washcloth and climbs back into bed, cleaning off Phil’s belly with long, easy strokes, unsurprised to find his eyes closed by the time he gives himself a cursory wipe-down and tosses away the towel.

But not asleep, not yet, and Clint can see a corner of his mouth turn up when he settles close instead of on the other side of the bed. “Count on it, Barton,” he murmurs.

 

***

When Clint wakes the next morning, Phil is still dead to the world, and Clint takes a moment to let his eyes drift over the curve of his spine before the dual needs of hydration and caffeine are too much to overcome.

Steve is sitting at the kitchen table when he pads to the coffeemaker, hitching up the waistband of his boxers, and he looks up from the crossword long enough to make a face. “You could wear clothes, Barton.”

“You wound me, Cap,” Clint grins, heavily sugaring his coffee and stealing one of Tony’s water bottles from the refrigerator before he settles next to Steve and steals the sports section.

“Give him a break, Rogers.” Natasha is the next one to make a beeline for coffee, and Clint holds up the business section of the newspaper for her without being asked. He loves these mornings, when Steve has stayed over with Tony, and Clint’s crashed after a team party, and the three of them are the first ones up, and alone at the kitchen table just like when they were teenagers. “You took his virginity, there’s no need to be coy about a bare chest.”

“Took? More like willingly given,” Clint grins, and the three of them exchange a glance that never fails to make him feel stupidly warm and fuzzy inside.

“Soooo,” Natasha drags out, glancing over her section of the paper. “Tell us what you’re still doing here this morning, Barton.”

“Oh! Pick me, pick me!” Tony Stark bounces on his toes, arm in the air, before claiming a chair and stealing Steve’s coffee. “Me and Clint had the most _fascinating_ encounter last night, and someone else was there, who was it...?”

Clint smirks and focuses on his coffee, mostly because he can see Pepper approaching from down the hall, and true to form she swats Tony in the back of the head on her way to settle in Natasha’s lap and steal her paper, leaving the actual words to Clint. “Stark, don’t be an ass, we don’t need to alienate the guy 12 hours after he joined our team.”

Tony clears his throat, which usually means he’s about to say something else assholish. “So, like, is that it, did you resolve all your ridiculous hero-worship? So we can all stop hearing about it?”

“Tony,” Steve admonishes, taking his mug back and holding it away, impassive as Tony tries to reach the coffee by reaching across Steve’s chest.

“What! This is-- this is important team business! We’re practically having a team meeting here, you always say we’re allowed to talk about our feelings at team meetings, these are just _Clint’s_ feelings we’re talking about today, dammit, I need caffeine!”

“Three players, a trainer and the general manager do not make a team meeting,” Natasha points out, resting her chin on Pepper’s shoulder, gaze moving from Tony to Clint. “That said, spill, Clint.”

Which is, naturally, when Phil Coulson steps into the kitchen. He pauses, clearly processing what he overheard, takes in his new general manager drinking coffee cozily in the lap of another woman and his goalie draped pathetically caffeine-less over his captain, and then he takes three deliberate steps, tilts Clint’s chin up, and kisses him firmly. Clint blinks rapidly as Phil straightens up and leaves a casual hand on the back of his neck as he says, “Stark, you promised me breakfast.”

***

“Barton,” Tony stage-whispers from two feet away, when omelettes and bacon have been eaten and Phil’s engaged with Steve and Pepper in filling in the last few crossword clues. “I think you’ve been _claimed_.”

Clint tilts his head as Phil glances up, catches his eye, and smiles. “Yeah, you know, I’m ok with it.”


End file.
